My personal story is that my mom had breast cancer when I was a senior in high school. Which was, it goes without saying, a horrendously major bummer and pretty much changed my life in a heck of a lot of ways.

She's good now, thank you for asking.

I had a big scare early this year. I'm only six years younger than my mom was when she was diagnosed and my risk? Is big and huge and scary and almost completely out of my control. And there are a whole lot of women in my situation and a WHOLE lot of women in much WORSE situations.

So.

Help, if you can. Please.

And if you can't help financially, please pray for my fat ass as I haul it about for 39 miles.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

I mean, that's what I thought. I guess. It's been six years so I'm not positive of what I really thought then.

In fact, I think what I actually thought was that I loved him and I wanted to marry him. I didn't think anything about what we would do day-to-day. I really didn't think much beyond what I would do the next day, to be honest.

Today I heard a statistic that most marriages that end? Do so in the first two years. So I guess we're about three times ahead of the curve.

Except this morning. He was on my nerves.

Not really, I guess. He was okay. We weren't fighting and nothing was really wrong, he was just blah. And when he's blah? I tend to be blah too.

Plus yesterday we had a really long talk about my new book. It wasn't a bad talk, but it's really a good talk either. So I was probably pretty blah too.

This morning I was thinking about life and marriage and what exactly it takes to stay together and how to avoid stabbing him in the face when he gets like this. Because all of those are really important and some more than others this morning.

We sat together in the pew at church. Four of us, in a row. Jason, me, the Girl Child, and the Boy Child. At one point, the Boy Child looked a little green, got up from his seat and sprinted for the bathroom.

After a few minutes Jason got up to check on him.

Because, I guess, it's love.

Love isn't puking, of course, but sometimes...I guess it is.

And I guess it's not all sunshine and rainbows. Sometimes it's comfort and security and safety. And sometimes it's not writing certain things because it's private and between the two of you and sometimes it's letting go of some things because it's the right thing to do.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Last night we were watching Jeopardy and one of the questions was something about the painter Peter Paul Rubens. He liked the plus-sized gals so I said, "If I had been alive in his time, I would have been a GODDESS."

And he replied, "Um, Stephanie? How do you not realize you ARE a Goddess?"

I'm so not. But he's awesome, yes?

2) My story (and picture!)about my dog is in this book! Which is now available for pre-order! Heck yes!

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

I hate sweating. I hate the heat. I hate that FLAPPING noise that my arms make when I swing them around. It sounds like a helicopter taking off and, as you can imagine, that is VERY UNATTRACTIVE.

Also?

I love to exercise.

I love how I feel so much better when I work out. I look forward to my daily walks with my co-worker and I look forward to seeing how we can push ourselves. I love and I mean LOVE how I can be having the most craptacular day and burn it off, hard, by running on the treadmill.

I love that I can run.

Last year at this time? I couldn't run.

I'm still a long way from where I need to be. This isn't The Biggest Loser (new season! Starts September 15th! WOOT!). I'm healthier and stronger. Not skinny and probably never will be. I still don't like getting up early and I don't like exercising twice a day and I really wish I didn't feel like I was going to TOTALLY FAINT after walking up that enormous hill to get to my office.

But I'm getting there. I'm learning to love this. To accept it. To be okay.

I even bought a pair of pants that are smaller. I don't even know how to feel, but when they arrive? We'll see.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

A dear, sweet friend of mine who was 20 weeks pregnant has lost her baby.

I have no idea what to say or do or even think. I feel destroyed. Devastated. And what I feel isn't even 1 billionth of a percent of what she feels. I know this.

I wish there was something I could do. Anything I could do. To help her. To ease her burden through this horrible tragedy that no one should ever have to bear. Especially not someone as good and kind and dear as she is.

I don't know what to do though, so I'm praying.

If you are the praying type, could you please say a prayer for her? And if you are not, can you please think good thoughts for her? Because I'm sure that she could use all she can get right now.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Me, to Jason: You know, I wish you were my boyfriend and not my husband.Jason: Why's that?Me: Because I want to introduce you to people and be all like, "This is Jason. He's my ManFriend."Jason: Your Manfriend?Me: Yes.Jason: Um. Why?Me: Because. It sounds better than boyfriend doesn't it? I mean, boyfriend? That sounds young. MANfriend. That's nice. I like that.Jason: It's preferable to HUSBAND?Me, stubbornly: I just like it.Jason: Really, Stephanie? Really?Me: Well, I LIKE IT JASON.Jason: Well, if you like it so much then why didn't you call me your MANfriend when we were dating? You called me your boyfriend then!Me: You WERE a boy then!Jason: Hmph.Me: Also? I didn't think about it until like two weeks ago! God!

Saturday, August 22, 2009

And then? People read it. And that was sort of like having your pants pulled down in public.

And then? More people read it and stopped talking to me. Some of them said some really ugly stuff about me (the word "hack" was prevalent). People in my own family don't even talk to me now and I lost the only close relationship I had.

I wanted to make up with people and figure things out. I wanted things to get better so I made an effort and tried. Really tried.

Now, I can only figure that people avoid us not because we're "fighting" or not talking but because I, for whatever reason, am just so repugnant to them that they'd rather not even bother.

I can't change how things are. I know that I learn and grow everyday and I really am getting better. I know this. I know that eventually I'll figure out why everything has happened the way it has. I believe that 2009 will eventually all make sense...sort of like how I know now why my ex-husband left me when I was pregnant. It really sucked then, but God was just getting him out of the way. I know that.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

So today at work we were hard at it. And by it, I mean talking about men. I forget exactly how he came up, but the topic of conversation was Antonio Banderas. If you are living under a rock or something and are unfamiliar with this individual, here he is:

(Okay, frankly? I'm thinking this picture is kind of old. I've seen him recently and he doesn't look quite this...fresh)

So since I'm a good Christian woman I won't tell you what the conversation was, but I will tell you that when I said, "I don't really care for Antonio Banderas" the gasp in the room? Was pretty much deafening.

So. Internet. I'm admitting it. I don't care for Antonio Banderas.

You know who I like?

I like him:

Oh, and him:

(Incidentally, did you know he did a nude scene in Oz? I do too. Boy, do I)

Ooh, ooh! And him!

I've never believed I had a "type". I like people because of who they are. And all that jazz.

But, based upon these pictures? I apparently favor bald or balding men. With arm tattoos. Who are smart and can solve crimes and/or sing.

So naturally? I like him most of all:

He's got the bald thing down. And the arm tattoo. He's smart, but can't remember the clues to solve the crimes. He called me yesterday to sing that Tom Jones song, "She's a lady" (and he belted out the WHOA, WHOA, WHOA until I said, "You ARE alone in the office right now, right? I hope?"). So clearly, he's the total package.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

When you wake up later today and discover a big red mark on the underside of your arm? You need to know that I did that. You also need to know that I am not sorry I did that. Not even a little bit.

For, darling, when it is 2am and I am attempting to sleep and you decide for some reason that my FACE is your pillow? You are lucky I didn't stab you.

Also? My head? Is not a place to lay your arm. It is not a shelf. It is MY HEAD.

Thus? After you continued to try to use my face as your pillow and my head as your armshelf, even after I told you THAT'S MY FACE and THAT'S MY HEAD several times? I had to take matters into my own hands. Which is why I pinched you really, really hard on that very sensitive spot right near your armpit. It was just to make you stop it. And it worked. You rolled away, pulled the cover over your head, and began to snore like a defective buzzsaw once again.

Dear bitchface who pulled out in front of me yesterday when I was attempting to pick my children up from school,

Listen hon, I know it's like ULTRA IMPORTANT for you to get...wherever it is that you have to be, but we are in a PARKING LOT. A parking lot RESPLENDENT WITH CHILDREN. I'm sure you don't know what resplendent means, but basically? There's a lot of kids there. So stop being a hosebag whore. Where you are going is not important enough to mow down other people especially those that I believe are our future. I promise.

Also sugar, there are TWO lanes. One goes ONE direction and the other goes the OTHER direction. DO NOT DRIVE STRADDLING BOTH LANES thereby blocking everyone behind you until your stupid ass decides where you want to go. If you don't know where you are going? Stay home until you figure it out.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Apparently? There are rumors circulating that there is drug and gang activity in the middle school. They might be offered drugs! Or nicotine! Or even get shanked while trying to get into their locker WHICH THEY WILL BE UNABLE TO REMEMBER THE COMBINATION FOR NO MATTER HOW HARD THEY TRY!

Angsty!

So we were talking about what to do if they are offered drugs (say "No thanks"), alcohol (say "No thanks") or cigarettes (see answer for drugs and alcohol). Then I asked The Girl, "What would you say if some boy tries to get you to have sex with him?"

"I'd say WHO DO YOU THINK I AM YOU FREAKING PERV!"

"Good!"

"Can I call someone a perv, mom?"

"Honey, you can say whatever you want if someone is pressuring you to do that. And if someone tries to force you, you can physically harm them. As much as you want. You can even LEAVE YOUR SHOE stuck in there, if you want to."

Saturday, August 15, 2009

The Boy Child went on his first-ever sleepover on Friday night so the Girl Child and I spent some quality time.

Trying on bras.

Girl Child is fairly new to this entire Womanhood thing (so new that she's never had the BIG initiation which usually includes white shorts and deep and unending shame)so she had never put on a bra before. She owns four now, including one padded one (sigh) which I bought her on Friday. They've all stayed, stoically waiting in her drawer, until now.

Question 1:"How the crap do I put this thing on mom?"

I've never given lessons on how to put on a bra. In fact, I don't remember anyone ever telling me how to put one on either. Hmm. Despite this, I think I did well.

Question 2:"Is it me, or is this really weird?"

Yes Girl Child. It's weird. I have been wearing a bra for the past...oh, twenty-twoish years and it has never failed to be weird. One weird incident was when the Girl Child, age not quite two, put my red lace bra on her head, like a hat, and pranced about in front of company.

The preacher, if you want to be exact.

That was weird.

Question 3:"Is it me, or do I look like a bimbo?"

Not going there.

Question 4:"Mom, seriously. Do I have to wear one of these the rest of my life?"

Friday, August 14, 2009

I didn't know this, but apparently girls? Are only allowed to blog about certain things:1) Kids2) Weight3) Husbands4) Jesus

Otherwise? People don't want to hear it. Not only do people not want to hear it? They get really, really angry about it.

I'm a fan of my kids, not a fan of my weight, generally a fan of my husband, and totally bff's with Jesus (largely because he loves me best and doesn't care that I say douchebag a lot).

It's not all I am.

Those things, in fact, are only a very small part of me. And people get all pissed when I say that because I SHOULD care more about my kids and my husband and Jesus! (And maybe my weight, if you want to get all technical about it.)

(Oh and I say pissed all the time in real life. So there.)

I do care...I care a lot. I care more than I could ever express in words. I just choose not to completely define myself in one of those small boxes.

And I'm really tired of people telling me I shouldn't.

I was thinking the other day about this blog and a lot of other crap that I really don't want to think about at 2am when I can't sleep and the question that kept coming into my mind was

Who are you writing for?

I started out, back in 2006, writing for myself. It was an exercise. A forced behavior. I would write every day and I would improve my writing and eventually I would publish a book.

Somewhere along the way? I forgot that. I started writing for other people and I started writing to make other people happy. My writing became very...careful. It still is.

I don't like it.

I'm tired of it.

To that end, here are some things you should know:

1) I have a filthy mouth. Seriously. Filthy. I clean it up when I absolutely have to. Otherwise? Sailors blush in my presence.2) This one time? I fell off my porch? And my entire butt cheek got all bruised? And it was so amazing I took a picture of it? And then I opened up the picture on my dad's computer because I was visiting him and I was like, "Hey dad, come look at this!"? And my dad looked at it? And then I said, "Guess what that is? My butt!" and my dad was really horrified. You couldn't see any crack or anything, but still. That's probably just not right. Sorry dad.3) I owe money. I hate owing money, but I do. In a few years, I won't (except for the stupid mortgage which I will probably have until I'm dead). But right now I do. It sucks but it's the truth.4) I'm not always funny. I've said this about hinty billion times before but yet people are always surprised when I write something sad and/or serious. I'm not always funny. I'm just not. And I'm not going to try to be to make anyone else happy. Not anymore.5) If you act like an assfaced whore? That's your business. If you act like an assfaced whore to me? I'm calling you out. I don't care if "that's just how you are". How you are? Sucks. Similarly, if I behave like an assfaced whore? I'll call myself out. I'm equal opportunity like that.6) I sold out not long ago and don't feel even remotely bad about it. Hmm...let's see. Someone wants to give me cool free stuff and I get to write about it. And I shouldn't do this...why? Speaking of which...I have a really amazing giveaway going right now by Teak and Wicker and More who can service all your outdoor needs from patio furniture (which is gorgeous and you should check out)to solar lighting (which you can win! So go!).7) My kids poop? It stinks. My husband's poop? Stinks worse. We aren't perfect and we don't pretend to be. My eyebrows are badly in need of grooming, I have to get gas in my car, and I make long, elaborate grocery lists which include not only the name and brand of product I want to purchase, but how much I want to spend on each item. I even calculate the tax because I am just that anal.8) I use words like anal. On the internet.9) I am tragically, painfully socially awkward. Painfully.10) I'm tired. I'm really, really tired. All the time. But it's okay.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

-What is UP with people offering me work lately? I seriously have had like three offers this week! Which, in case it needs to be said? TOTALLY ROCKS. I must have good karma or something. Yay!

-Sadly? This asston of work? Is really cutting into my sleeping/laundry/exercise/sitting on my hiney/cooking/being a responsible citizen time.

-Do you see this dog? I freaking love her even though her farts smell like something crawled up her butt, died, the corpse was dragged out by the ghost of whatever died and then the ghost vomited on it.Because she's so cute, people don't believe she's nasty. But Ms. Jackson? She's nasty.

-Why does Twitter suck so much? I mean, I love it. But it sucks. It goes down approximately every thirty-five seconds. You can't do much with that, can you? I didn't think so.

BEGIN COMMERCIAL, SHIELD YOUR EYES IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE!-I have some cool swag I'm giving away on my review blog and I have a bunch of emails offering me even more cool swag. If you want to win some cool swag, you should look at it. If you want to be a douchebag, you should leave me alone. kthanksbye!END COMMERCIAL

-New favorite phrases:"Every one of all y'all are WRONG!""Make awkward sexual advances...not war.""Those police! They can never take a joke.""No matter what you do, someone is always trying to call the law!"

-I have all these plans and goals and crap and they are REALLY annoying to others. I can't help it. The man can't keep me down! Or, you know, whatever.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

At 2:13am I was fumbling through the kitchen to get a glass of water. As I'm pouring water from the light of the refrigerator and trying not to wake up my dog, I heard a terrible noise. Horrible.

It was like this:

SNAZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZKKKKK!

It was my husband. Snoring.

I sighed deeply, down to my soul.

As I've mentioned? Things haven't been the greatest lately at home. Not bad, mind you, but not great. A lot of it is my fault, and I know it. I'm ridiculously busy...painfully stressed. My days start early and last long. I have plans, goals, and ideas and because I have plans, goals, and ideas I never, ever, ever stop.

I'm pretty sure I'm not the easiest person on Earth to live with.

Neither is he.

As I chugged my water I started writing a post in my head. This is what I do...I constantly write posts in my head and eventually type them out. A letter to him, maybe? Something half-funny and half-serious about all his flaws and what he needed to do to be a perfect husband.

I finished my water and went back to bed. Before I could climb back in, I had to forcibly shove Jason's leg back to his side of the bed. If I am gone longer than thirty seconds his body automatically occupies the space that I was previously occupying. I don't know how he does it, but he also knows when I am gone, no matter how deeply he's sleeping.

Next to him, trying to sleep I thought about what to do. What to write and what to say. How sad I am that things are so off and how sad I am that yet another person I love is going through a divorce. About how it's so hard for people to stay together and how very, very sad it makes me when things fall apart.

I slept fitfully. I always do. I didn't dream.

At 4:50 my alarm went off and I groggily slapped at it and went about my morning routine. Quietly creeping through the house so I don't wake any of the people who still sleep. Packing up three little lunches, one for me and two for them. Patting the soft part of Ginger's neck gently, so she'll be sure I'm coming back later. Flipping the porch lights on and off three times in case a stupid raccoon is on my porch again. I hate those stupid raccoon bastards.

I climbed into my car, started it, and through bleary-eyes blinked at something on my windshield.

Wait.

Something was on my windshield.

WHAT THE CRAP WAS ON MY WINDSHIELD?

I was so angry. SO. ANGRY. My immediate thought was, "Those stupid kids up the street have THROWN SOMETHING ON MY WINDSHIELD. OH MY GOD! I will STAB THEM IN THEIR STUPID LITTLE IDIOT NECKS! Then! THEN! I'll call their parents and tell them what-"

Sunday, August 09, 2009

-School is starting again. NEXT WEEK. It's still like 200 degrees outside and school is starting.

-I always loved that song Rebirth of Slick and now it's part of a Tide commercial. Sadness.

-I got two uglyish comments yesterday and sadly? I knew both of them. I mean, yeah, they didn't bother to leave their names but I do have a sitemeter and I do know who they were. I thought they were my friends, but I guess not. Not nice.

-Remember how I said I was loving my new book? Yeah, not so much these days. I started thinking about the fact that people will actually READ this and know how bad things were for me there for a while and it makes the pit of my stomach feel really cold.

-To that end, things? Are not the best at home currently. Not the worst, either, but certainly not the best. Part of it is me and part of it is him and I hope the both of us get it figured out soon. Because it's rather unfun and not helping me with all the other issues I'm having in this world.

-Speaking of which, do you really think it's fun for me to have my life be commerce? Really? Do you really, honestly think that I wake up in the morning and think, "What would be the best way to annoy my blog readers so I can have enough money to pay my bills today?" That's the reason I freelance and that's the reason I have "commercials" on my blog (and yeah, the whole reason I started a seperate review blog is because I didn't want to junk up my main site...but thanks for being mean anyway), not because I think it's just super-fun to work and attempt to be perky about it constantly. In case I haven't mentioned a few thousand times before, my husband made $27000 less last year than he did the year prior. Twenty. Seven. Thousand. That's a huge number. Huge. And I have to do what I can do to make up that difference. I don't appreciate being judged for it.

Boy Child: Hey mom?Me: Hey, Boy Child.Boy Child: Mom, do you want to know this?Me: Um...probably. Go ahead.Boy Child: I was wondering about your friend's man cats.Me: Excuse me?Boy Child: You know? Yesterday? You told us about your friend who had those really large cats? Me: Yesterday?Boy Child: Yes. Remember?Me: Um...no.Boy Child: Remember mom? And you told us about your friend who had those really, really big cats? And you showed us a picture of those kind of cats on the internet?Me, remembering: Boy Child. That was in 2007.Boy Child: Was that yesterday?Me: Boy Child. It's 2009. Boy Child: Oh.Me: Yeah.

*silence*

Boy Child: So can you ask your friend how his man cats are doing?Me: Okay. Next time I see him.

Boy Child, on the way home: Do you have any pictures of your dad?Me, surprised: Of course!Boy Child: Do you have any pictures of when he was about your age? Like you and daddy?Me: I might...I'll have to look.Boy Child: Would you look? I want to see what he looked like.Me: Okay honey.Boy Child: I saw a picture of when he married mommaw. He had a full set of hair!Me: A full set, you say?Boy Child: It was almost like Elvis!

Boy Child: Mom? I heard on King of The Hill this lady said, "I've seen a barrel of pickles in my day!"Me, giggling: Did you?Boy Child: Yes! That's funny!Me, inappropriate as always: Yes it is!Boy Child: Have you seen a barrel of pickles in your day mom?Me: Umm.Boy Child, loudly: My mom's seen a barrel of pickles in her day!Me: I wouldn't call it a barrel son. Maybe a bag.Boy Child: Oh. Okay.Me: Okay.

On a completely random note that has nothing to do with the hilarity of this post, a couple of days ago I reached my 1000th post. I totally forgot to mention it because I'm cool like that. But hey. I'm a chatty sack of somebody, aren't I?

Wednesday, August 05, 2009

1) Myreallykickassfriendswhich Itotallydon't even deserve. (Even the ones who don't have websites so I can link to them) Seriously, I love my friends so much it's almost PAINFUL. I think I could say to them, "You know? I stabbed someone in the throat today" and they be all like, "Stephanie. They probably totally deserved it, BUT, let's figure out why you did it." I. Love. My. Friends. I am so blessed.

2)I have on a skirt today. That, in itself, is pretty much unheard of. The skirt? Is a size smaller than I have been wearing. AND my co-worker pointed out that I have room to move in it. Holy. Crap.

3) A girl at the gym last night said, "Oh my God! Look how baggy your pants are!". And I'm fairly certain it wasn't because she was afraid they were going to fall off my butt which would in turn force her to see my underwear. She was happy for me.

4)I am pretty much in love with Kelly Clarkson. Every morning on the way to work I blast I Do Not Hook Up and sing at the top of my lungs. I also dance, a lot. And since I get to work at 6am now and no one is on the road to witness my lunacy? I don't feel bad about it at all.

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

On my counter? Are brownies. And another pan of brownies, which are low-fat. And a third pan of brownies, which are peanut-butter. PEANUT-BUTTER BROWNIES Y'ALL.

Also? I made cookies. Chocolate chip with chunks of Hershey bar.

The other day? I made homemade blueberry muffins. And cinnamon bread. Two loaves.

And I haven't eaten one bite of any of it. Not even one bite.

Because it's not about eating. It's not even about the food. Maybe years ago the food would have been a comfort. Not now. Now the food seems...dangerous is the wrong word. But maybe dangerous. Maybe I just like living on the edge. I don't know.

I just know I don't mess up when I bake.

See, I get cookies. I pull pans and pans out of my oven and they are beautiful and just right. I've practiced with cookies. I know exactly when to turn the pan. Exactly how much brown sugar to put in. The exact right moment they are ready. Perfect.

And the thing about cookies is? If you screw it up? You can give them to your dog or, if necessary, your trash receptacle. And life goes on. You make another batch and no one knows the difference.

Nothing else in my life is as easy as cookies. Nothing.

I don't understand my husband. Or my work. Or a great number of other things in my life right now.

I can't fix any of it. I feel like everything is so messed up and I don't understand. I mess up so many things on a daily basis and I just feel really helpless in so many areas of my life.

But I understand baking. I don't mess up cookies.

I didn't think chocolate chips were so philosophical. But there you go.

Monday, August 03, 2009

This morning when I stepped on the scale? The number was 4.2 pounds lower than it was last Monday morning when I stepped on the scale.

That pretty much rules, right? I thought so.

So when I log my weight on my Weight Watchers account? This is the message I get:You lost weight! Keep making sure you’re losing weight the healthy way – sticking to the Good Health Guidelines, using up your daily POINTS Target, and focusing on nutritious Filling Foods.

Please note: You’re probably excited to be losing weight, but you’re losing faster than is recommended. Although it’s normal to lose over 2 lbs in 1 week, if you lose more than an average of 2 lbs per week over a 4-week period, this could pose health risks, such as heart irregularities, anemia or loss of muscle mass. Please slow your weight loss; your doctor can help you do this if you’re not sure how.

Let's break it down, shall we?

You lost weight!What??!?! I would have never expected that what with me being on a program like WEIGHT FREAKING WATCHERS.

Keep making sure you’re losing weight the healthy way – sticking to the Good Health Guidelines, using up your daily POINTS Target, and focusing on nutritious Filling Foods.Eating my daily POINTS is not a problem. Thank you. I could eat my POINTS and yours too.

Please note: You’re probably excited to be losing weight,Excited is not even close to the appropriate emotion I am feelingbut you’re losing faster than is recommended.Oh really? You didn't mention that all those weeks when the scale stayed EXACTLY THE SAME EVEN THOUGH I DIDN'T EAT THE STUPID CAKE THAT I REALLY, REALLY WANTED.Although it’s normal to lose over 2 lbs in 1 week,It is? For who?if you lose more than an average of 2 lbs per week over a 4-week period, this could pose health risks, such as heart irregularities, anemia or loss of muscle mass. Please slow your weight loss; your doctor can help you do this if you’re not sure how.Please allow me to assure you that I do not need a doctor to help me SLOW MY WEIGHT LOSS. I do JUST FINE with slow weight loss myself.

Sunday, August 02, 2009

In keeping with the I'm-actually-a-fourteen-year-old-boy theme? I spent most of yesterday evening playing video games with the Boy Child.

We played one of those wrestling games. Smackdown VS. Raw, maybe. I? Totally kicked his butt six ways of Sunday. And then repeatedly shouted things like, "AWWWWWWWWWWWW YEAHHHHHH!" Because, you know, it builds character to lose. Or whatever.

Boy Child was very enthusiastic about the entire thing though. He even helped me create my character which was a huge, Amazon-type woman with Pippi Longstocking Hair and arm tattoos. I called her, "Diseased Ovarian Girl".

Boy Child? Was impressed.

"She's just like you mom," he told me. "Except you have nicer hair and wear more clothes!"

Saturday, August 01, 2009

I am sick of my body. I am sick of 4:45am. I am sick of counting Points for each and every thing that goes into my mouth and I am REALLY sick of capitalizing "Points" like that. For the love of God.

The thing is, I'm losing weight. I really am. I know it's working. The number on the scale is on a down slope. It's slower than Christmas, but it's still a down slope. Which is awesome and everything, but also FRUSTRATING AS HELL because I don't just wake up and have everything suddenly be okay. That's never happened, ever, but it doesn't mean I don't want it to.

Also? My body is changing. It doesn't just go all smoothly like it's supposed to. Things are...I don't know, shifting? Or something? It's weird and I don't much care for it.

It makes my pants go like this:

And yes. Jesus Christ. I just showed my pink underwear to God and everybody. I'm sorry. (Also, sorry to my dad, if he's reading this.) My only explanation is that this is the least sexy thing ON THE ENTIRE PLANET so surely nobody will get offended. I hope.

(Also, I have no clue why I'm wearing green pants and blue shirt. I need to do some laundry. And perhaps get a stylist.)

Besides, if you know me? This happens to me all the time. My boss knows what the vast majority of my underwear looks like. (Also, I'm sorry about that Donna. Sincerely.)

SO. The obvious answer is to buy some smaller pants. Right?

Which would work GREAT if I wasn't FREAKING TERRIFIED TO BUY SMALLER PANTS.

I don't understand why I have such a mental block when it comes to this. This is less about my abject hatred of shopping and spending money and more about my fear of being something different. Being someone different. That the minute that I accept this, that I say, "Okay, I don't have to be fat. I can be something else" that some magical switch in my mind or something will flip and BAM. The new pants will be small on me and I'll wonder what the Hell I was thinking.

Somehow it seems easier to just walk around with the fear that my pants will fall off in front of someone important.

I know this isn't logical. I know this is like the mental block that I had a few months ago when I decided there was absolutely no way I could run. I run all the time now. It might be extremely unattractive when I do it, but BY GOD I DO IT.

I don't know. God. Continued therapy and a belt maybe? I've got to get it together.